Penance
by CitySleep
Summary: Because nothing is the same at Hogwarts anymore, the corridors are too quiet, the teachers too permissive, the walls too thin- She desperately, desperately needs something to be normal, even if it is just Malfoy; she needs his arrogance and his cowardliness. A Post War Story.


There are tears running down his face, and he stares at her, eyes hollow –

No sign of pride, no shame at being caught in such a vulnerable state.

And it scares Hermione, this vulnerability.

Because nothing is the same at Hogwarts anymore, the corridors are too quiet, the teachers too permissive, the walls too thin-

She desperately, desperately needs something to be normal, even if it is just Malfoy; she needs his arrogance and his cowardliness-

But the tears continued to spill, so she slaps him.

"I'm so sorry, Granger, I'm so sorry,"

"Shut up."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry,"

She hits him again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,"

And again and again but every time,

"I'm so sorry."

Until she flies into a frenzy, punching and slapping wherever she can reach.

"I hate you! You're a coward! A COWARD!"

Yet he never moves to defend himself, to push her away, and dear god she just needs him to be normal why can't he understand that he needs to be normal-

and she bursts into tears.

They stand together, for a while, both crying because they don't want to be there, but they have nowhere else to go. 

xxxxx

She goes to class and studies and answers questions, but the enthusiasm isn't there, and she knows she only came back because once this is over, once she feels better; she'll be kicking herself if she doesn't do this. And she needed to escape Ron and Harry, and their pain. Everyone is full of pain now, and it's suffocating, she can barely handle her own without fear of collapsing.

He kisses her and she loathes him, feels fire burning up in her belly, but she needs this, she needs to feel something, so she lets him, and he continues to worship her with kisses, lips slowly fluttering to her skin, apologizing with each caress. He works his way from the graceful arch of her feet to the sensitive skin at her thigh.

Naked bodies are so hot together that she feels feverish, and she wants to be outside where the moonlight can cleanse her but this will have to do, and he's everywhere, smothering her with his penance.

He's gentle with her, so gentle, and when it's over she feels empty again, while Draco Malfoy cries at her side.

xxxx 

One day she finds a corridor that hasn't been properly rebuilt yet- maybe they forgot? There's burn marks on the walls and dust on the stones. Something in the rubble catches her eye, something dark and glinting, and even though she knows what it is she can't help but look closer.

It's a prefect's badge with a smudge of dried blood on it.

Hermione racks her brain, but she has no idea who last year's prefect was.

It all becomes too real then, what happened in this hallway, she can see death eaters firing curses and students screaming and crying while professors try to defend them and aurors running through the crowds but slipping on blood and the horrified look on molly's face and Fred's last laugh and Snape dead and Harry, Harry dead and Hagrid carrying Harry's dead body and how could he be dead she didn't understand how she could lose her best friend but that was him right there dead just lying there because he was dead dead dead-

She stares, crouched, at the badge until a teacher finds her several hours later.

That night when Malfoy knocks on the door, she shakes her head.

"Not tonight."

xxxxx 

The eighth years are volatile, accidentally setting fire to things or firing spells when surprised. Some of them pick fights with the other students, or even teachers. Others wander the hallways after curfews, searching for the ones they lost among the deserted corridors.

But they are never punished, simply guided back by the exhausted staff, one hand gently on their backs as if they might fall.

Even the ghosts are wary of them.

xxxx 

Sometimes Hermione wakes up and she doesn't know where she is, and those are the nights she's happy that she let him stay, that she can feel his uneven breathing tickling her cheek. On those nights she holds a hand to his heart and lets the soothing beats lull her to sleep.

When Draco wakes up lost, he walks to the room of requirement, which stays shut, since it cannot offer what he it is he requires.

xxxx 

McGonagall watches them wearily, these young veteran, ones who haven't completed their NEWTS and yet have watched classmates die in their arms. Very few speak, and those that do carry an awful forced cheer with them, as if they were trying to obliviate themselves with nonsensical chatter. She wants to help them, to have them back to normal, but she herself is exhausted, and there are young ones to teach.

She is getting old.

xxxxx 

"I need you to be rough with me." She says that night, as he unbuttons his shirt.

His eyes are wide, huge, threatening to swallow her whole-

"What?"

"I want you to be rough with me. Hurt me until I say stop." She says again.

His eyes fill with panic and dart from side to side.

"I can't, no, Granger, don't-"

"Please," She whispers, eyes filling with tears. "I need this."

Defeated, he sighs.

They finish with her face down, his hand tangled roughly in her hand. She starts sobbing, and he follows quickly after.

That night they lay entangled, his fingers gently encircling each fresh bruise, and for the first time she kisses him instead of the other way around, thanking him for the pain and release he has inflicted upon her tonight.

xxxx 

"This isn't normal, you know."

It's said quietly, swallowed by the darkness around them.

"What?" Malfoy mumbles, half asleep.

"What we're doing, it isn't normal. I've been reading about it, it's called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We're behaving irration-"

"Bloody hell Granger, of course I know this isn't fucking _normal_!" He spits, irate. "This is far from fucking normal!"

A strange feeling overwhelms Hermione, and for a minute she is so unbelievably relieved because he sounds like himself, before, and maybe things will be all right-

But he tenses beside her, inhales sharply, and she can feel the tremor building through his body.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it! Shit, Granger, I'm sorry…"

As he repents, her salvation fades away, disappearing further away with every one of Draco's pleas.

xxxxx 

At their graduation ceremony, Hermione gives a small speech. Her classmates clap and she speaks with many important ministry people afterwards. They shower her with praise and give her expensive gifts. She feels sick.

Draco sits through the affair, trying to blend in. He's painfully aware that there is only one person present here who doesn't wish him ill, and she's currently occupied.

As soon as they can leave unnoticed, Hermione and Draco duck away from the school grounds and into Hermione's room.

"I can't stand it." She spits as she flops down on the bed, exhausted. "Smiling and laughing and joking as if this was some easy victory, as if my friends didn't die on these very grounds just so that they can sit around and discuss politics-"

Draco sits beside her. Angry tears start to pour down her cheeks. Absentmindedly he strokes her hair.

"I can't stand this. I don't want to be a hero, I'm not. I was just lucky, we were _all _just lucky."

Draco stays silent, wiping her tears with the sleeve of his graduation robe.

She sighs. "I wish we could just run away from everything, even just for a while."

"Well," Draco says, with just the faintest hint of humor. "We could. We are both rich, you know."

xxxx 

He still finds his way into her room sometimes, though now there's less crying and more talking. Sometimes they talk of the war, and of the things they saw. Sometimes they make grocery lists or add up the bills together.

It's not same as before, not even a little bit.

But it isn't a bad thing, Hermione muses.

She no longer craves the old Malfoy, the sharp tongue and arrogance. Things don't need to go back to the way they were. After all, she rather likes this Malfoy, the one who strives to make up for lost time.

Maybe this is what winning is, then. Not the loud victory that the ministry tries to proclaim, but the quiet change that comes with survival.


End file.
